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Fyodor Dostoevsky
He began quietly praying, but he soon felt that he was praying almost mechanically. Fragments of thought floated through his soul, flashed like stars and went out again at once, to be succeeded by others. But yet there was reigning in his soul a sense of the wholeness of things-something steadfast and comforting-and he was aware of it himself. Sometimes he began praying ardently, he longed to pour out his thankfulness and love…
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